The Wildling Wolf
by Jaco2553alpha
Summary: All know the tale of Bael the Bard, the Wildling that had a child with a Stark in the crypts of Winterfell, but what if that didn't happen? What if Bael the Bard took the Stark daughter back with him Beyond the Wall? How would this Stark, raised among Wildlings live and affect the great story of the North?


**A/N Right so this is an AU I have been thinking about for a while in centers around Bael the Bard and the son he had Rickard's Stark's only daughter. This timeline will be set roughly five thousand years before Aegon's landing and three thousand years after the Long Night. So at this point the North is nearly united, but with his daughter, his only heir, stolen away the Bolton's come for Winterfell and the other lords break off to become kings again. How will this turn out?**

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_Italics_ are thought

ALN (After Long Night)

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Chapter 1:

Prologue

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3035 ALN

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_The Milkwater_

Breath tore at her throat as she ran, the harsh freezing air tore at her lungs, they were closing, that she knew. Her legs burned and felt as if two stones weight had been tied to them. But still she ran on, the precious and heavy bundle held close to her chest. Her son.

He cried as he was jostled, his young voice soft and sweet, like his fathers. She heard the braying of dogs in the distance, _They were coming,_ that was all she knew, and she had to run.

The Frostfangs rose in the distance, the snow locked peaks sparkled in the mid-morning sun that rose in the clear blue sky. It was beautiful upon the fresh white snow, but she had no time for beauty, not time for grief, all that mattered was getting her son to safety.

She head her pursuers, first the dogs now the shouts behind her, growing closer. She drove herself to even greater speeds, she would reach the Milkwater soon, there she could escape with her son in the fishing boat Bael used.

Ah, her dear sweet Bael. She had not regretted leaving Winterfell with him when he asked. He had taken her beyond the Wall, to a home by the Fist of the First Men, and cared for her as her stomach swelled with his child. He was dead now, she had seen him cut down buying her time to run, to escape with their son.

_There, _she thought, the Milkwater was ahead. The snow melted into the leather leg bindings wrapped around her legs as she struggled through the deeper snow.

The yells grew ever louder behind her, and she struggled down the bank to the small corpse of trees the boat was hidden in, "There!" a shout came.

She heard the yell, and dared to look behind. A man was struggling down the hill behind her, fear gripped her, he was halfway down the hill, and more men joined him at the top, the dogs by their sides. Reaching the trees she placed her year old son in the small skiff, T_here is no time... _she realized.

Snow crunched and branches cracked as the man forced his way through the bushes towards her and her son.

Planting one last kiss on her sons brow, "You are the last of the Stark's my son," she whispered to him, removing her necklace of the direwolf, and placing in in his small hands, "Be safe, and may the gods watch over you, Harkon Stark," she whispered, then she pushed the skiff towards the river, pushing through her exhaustion.

A hand closed on her arm, "I have you wolf bitch," he yelled pulling her away from the boat. She landed in the snow winded, and the man smiled cruelly down on her, a sword in one hand, the pink and red flayed man of the Bolton's proud on his surcoat, "Once I give your son to the dogs, I will have you many times over. Our lord wants you, he wont mind if we take some fruits first!" he said licking his lips.

"No!" she screamed, as the man turned and her son began to wail, with a reserve on strength she did not know she possessed, she rose up, grabbing at the dagger Bael had gifted her, and leapt at the man. Landing on his back, she drove the knife down again and again, he flailed beneath her, she felt a pain in her side, but she did not stop until blood painted her face.

Rising limply, she walked past the bloodied corpse and returned to pushing. The small skiff reached the currents of the river, and the boat began to be pulled away, there was no time to climb aboard, _no reason neither, _she thought, as she looked down.

In the man's flailing, his sword had found her side, opening a great gash from which her lifeblood flowed. The boat began to be taken by the current, out of the Bolton's reach.

Turning, her face stained with blood, and smiled at her pursuers, who stood on the bank watching angrily as the boat that held the last of the Stark's drifted towards the Frostfangs, "Too late," she said, her mind slowing, and darkness covering the edges of her eyes.

With one final look at the boat drifting off, she whispered a silent prayer to the Old Gods, then she felt her knees buckle and collapsed on her side into the river.

The last think she felt was the icy bite of the frozen river gnawing at her skin. And then nothing.

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_Winterfell, One Year Ago_

The Bolton's had come... He had known they would. Ever since they accursed Wildling had stolen her away in the night, leaving only the blue rose resting upon the pillows in her chambers. He cursed himself for his arrogance, of calling Bael a coward.

He cursed himself for his hubris, believing himself safe from any harm that may come of it. And yet, Bael had proven himself braver than he, rising to the challenge he had lain down. Climbing the Wall, and walking into Winterfell itself disguised as a singer, Syggrik of Skagos. _The deceiver, _he though. It was so clear now.

And the gods had punished him for his hubris. With his only heir gone, the Bolton's had smelled blood, and his lords weakness. The Dustin's rebelled, reclaiming their title of Barrow King's, the Ironborn has descended like vultures, seizing the Western Shore and now they were burning through the Wolfswood. Only the Umber's and those within the lands sworn directly to Winterfell had remained loyal.

His cousin Greystark's of the Wolf's Den had betrayed him, siding with the Bolton's for power.

Two thousand years his family had struggled to bring the North to heel, all undone within his lifetime, all because of his pride.

"My Lord, the Bolton army is approaching," Jonel Umber, a great beast of a man, said coming to stand at his side.

He nodded grimly, he could muster no more than two thousand fighters to his banner now, of which under a thousand were not green boys, the rest had gone over to the Bolton's, who now commanded over ten thousand. Looking out over the ramparts of Winterfell, the Bolton army was arrayed out before them, some burning Wintertown, others readying the siege.

Taking some solace in knowing that all the smallfolk had been scattered across the countryside at his orders, and that they were out of the Bolton's path, his eyes found the pink leather armor of Rogar Redarm Bolton. He snarled at the man, the Bolton's had forever been the Stark's greatest rivals, since before even the Long Night.

Once, a decade ago, he had defeated Rogar on the field, and now, Bolton came to return the favor. And with little to speak of in the name of an army, he was forced to make his stand in his ancestral home. The walls of Winterfell were high, its gates strong, but in his heart, he knew in could not last.

"Are the men ready?" he asked his loyal friend.

Jonel nodded, "Aye, their ready to take as many of these cunts with them," he rumbled. A faint smile was drawn to his lips, Jonel had served beside him for many years, and he had even planned on having Jonel's heir; a good strong lad named Rickon, marry his daughter and take the Stark name, so that his line would endure.

"Well then, lets make the end memorable," he said, resting his hand heavily on his friends shoulder. There were no illusions between them. They would die here, "How is your son?" he asked curiously, his eyes never leaving the assembling Bolton's. He saw rams and ladders being readied before their lines.

"He is well. I ensured that my son will not die here, and sent him back north, back to the Last Heart. My uncles will look after him," he said nodding to himself.

At that moment, the horns sounded from the Bolton lines and the tide of black and pink began to advance, "So it begins..." he said drawing his sword. Ice, a blade of bronze blessed by the Children and used by Brandon the Builder to drive back the Long Night.

Raising Ice high, the archers nocked, "Loose!" he ordered, and several hundred arrows flew from the ramparts felling dozens of Bolton men, while more fell crying out in agony, "Loose," he called once more, an again the rattled of bows releasing the the whistling of arrows filled the air.

Again Bolton men fell but the wave did not halt. A few volleys later, ladders crashed against the wall and men began to scream as Bolton archer's felled men on the walls and stones rained down on the Bolton's. A latter crashed against the battlements near where he stood and so he took a few paces and positioned himself before it.

He thrust his sword out, stabbing a Bolton man through the mouth when his face emerged from over the wall. With a wet squelch, he withdrew Ice, allowing the body to fall to the ground below.

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Weariness covered all of him, he did not know how long he had been fighting. He was stained head to toe in blood, most his enemies, but he still bled from a half dozen wounds. The walls had fallen, after the gates were breached. They had fallen back to the inner walls around the great keep, but the gates were weaker and had fallen within the hour.

Then the battle had become a melee within the halls of the keep. He stood ready, resting heavily on one leg, do take strain from his other leg, that held a deep gash he had bound hastily. A gift from one of his Greystark cousins before Ice had ended his life.

Just over a hundred of his best remained within the Great Hall. Jonel still stood at his side, wounded a dozen times, the giant man had slain dozens upon dozens of men. His great ax smashing through the bronze studded leather of the enemy.

The battle had gone as well as it could, his two thousand had not made the victory cheep, slaying many thousands of Bolton's men, yet the Red King had pressed them on with no care for their lives.

Yet now, the battle was over. Nothing remained other than a final defiance. The hall was mostly silent except for a few muffled cries of grief and pain echoed from some corners, and the booming of the ram attempting to break down the doors sealed and braced by his men.

Those too wounded to fight on had taken their own lives, knowing the fate of those that became prisoners of the Bolton's.

A louder boom sounded, and the door began to splinter. His warriors began to form a loose half circle around the door, and with a few more strikes the door fell inwards. A tide of Bolton's poured inwards, and the clash of shields and swords and ax's and maces and the cries of men rang out.

He charged into the fray, quickly slashing a Bolton across the chest, the enchanted blade of ice cutting through the leather armor, before blocking the strike from another Bolton, and stabbing him through the gut. He was willing to die beside his men. And they did. His men, tired from hours of battle were hewn down by the fresh Bolton men at arms, within minutes, many lay dead upon the stone.

The Weirwood of Winterfell flashed behind his eyes, and he felt a tug in his gut, towards the Godswood, "With me!" he yelled suddenly, rallying the last few men still alive to him and Jonel, and falling back, out of the melee towards the side door and the passage that lead to the Godswood, "We must get to the Godswood," he yelled. He knew what he must do, the gods willed it.

They ran through the entrance to the passage, two men remained to delay the pursuing Bolton's for a few moments, allowing them to close the Ironwood door. The remaining three men braced the door as the Bolton's hammered against the other side, "Go my king!" one yelled.

He nodded solemnly and then ran with only Jonel. They were near the end of the passage, they would enter the courtyard ten paces from the entrance of the Godswood.

The clash of weapons behind him made him look back. Jonel had stopped, his ax swinging in devastating strokes, holding back the Bolton tide, "Go Rickard, do what you need to do," he yelled without looking back.

"Goodbye my friend," he said softly. Not daring to mourn his friend, he rushed on. Alone, he ran out of the passage, across the courtyard and into the Godswood.

His feet pounded the soft earth as he raced along the path to the Heart Tree, the Bolton's close behind. Stopping before the Heart Tree, he raised both swords at the eight men that now stood before the Heart Tree. Then Rogar, in his pink leather emerged from the trees, "The last King of Winter," he said mockingly. "Bring him to his knees. I shall make him kneel before I kill him."

The Bolton's charged, and he breathed in, knowing that he would meet his death here. He sidestepped the first strike and buried Ice in the man's stomach. Whirling around, he ducked beneath another slash he withdrew Ice and cut the man's legs out.

A sword from another Bolton opened a would on his upper arm, he hissed in pain, and responded by plunging Ice into the man's chest. He rolled to the side, avoiding the strike from behind and nearly losing his grip on Ice, he brought Ice up, parrying another strike like with a staff, with one hand on the hilt and one on the blade.

Drawing his dagger, he plunged that into the man's chest as he stood. Then a burning pain erupted in his side, he looked down to see a sword with drawing from his side. He fell to his side, dragging himself with one hand towards the black waters of the pond.

'None but a Stark may wield Ice, as the Children of the Forest intended,' he remembered his father telling him that. The Bolton's advanced behind him, he could hear Rogar laughing faintly, "The great King of Winter, dragging himself away. The Stark's reveal themselves at last, as cowards!"

He ignored the Bolton, reaching the side of the pool, "Take me up, cast me away," he recited, knowing the time had come to cast it away. "May Ice find its way into the hands of a Stark," he prayed, trowing Ice into the pond.

If the gods willed it, Ice would find its way back to the hand of a Stark. And he hoped, that his daughter would have a son, that would one day return.

He felt another pain in his back, "And what was that meant to display?" Rogar asked, having knelt and stabbed a dagger in his back.

"Ice shall find its way to a Stark," he said defiantly, refusing to cower in his final moments, "Despite your efforts, the Stark's shall live on."

Rogar laughed cruelly, "Do not be so sure. I have sent men beyond the Wall. They shall find your whore of a daughter, kill any pups she may have whelped and bring her to me. She shall serve me, the last Stark, on her knees before me, and chained to my bed. She shall be a symbol to those that dare oppose the Bolton's. As will your corpse..." he said, drawing a knife he recognized, a knife that had ended the lives of many Stark's.

The knife descended, and he felt in cutting into his skin, and the great pain that came with it. He would not scream, and he would die with honor.

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_The Frostfangs_

A boat scraped against a rocky shore, deep in the Frostfangs. Inside, a small wold of two years slept. Resting there for many hours, two figures began to approach. Clothed in furs and leather studded in bronze, spears with bronze heads in their hands.

Looking down, they saw the young wolf, and the necklace of the Direwolf resting upon the bundle of furs. A Direwolf all of their tribe knew, for they had fought beside them in the great darkness.

Reaching down, one picked up the bundle, careful to take the necklace as well, "Come, we must take him to the Magnar."

_To be continued..._

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**Right, well first chapter of the new story done. I think that you all should know is that Heir to the North is not abandoned, and will be completed but I wanted to get some other stuff done first. On another note, what do you think of the new story so far?**

**First chapter was a little dark, but it will get better. I probably wont update since I will be focusing on Heir to the North, but I wanted to get the first chapter of this story out for all of you.**

**I did totally steal the 'Take me up, and cast me away,' from Excalibur, but I think that it is a nice sentiment for this. Also how was the fall of Winterfell to the Bolton's? And who knows who saves Harkon?**

**The time before Aegon's Conquest has always fascinated me, and I wanted to write a story about it for a long time. So I am finally doing it.**

**Anyway review and PM if you have questions, suggestions and other comments. But no flames.**


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